Music and the Clergy

Songs of Praise, I have to confess, is a programme I watch only under duress.  However nobly young Aled might try to present it, it's always the same mixture of entertainment and buck teeth and crooners who sigh and sob a lot, and even when there is a half-decent hymn some invisible string-puller decides the viewers will change channels unless there are some creative twists, so verse 1 of Praise My Soul comes from Exeter Cathedral, verse 2 from Belfast and v3 either from a beach in Tenerife or somewhere in deepest Botswana (and I mention Botswana only, and subtly, to indicate that I am pretty well up on matters televisual.)

But last Sunday (22 March) was a bit of a surprise.  Three Irish priests singing very beautifully together.  I hadn't heard of them before, so I hadn't had time to prepare the usual cynical, however elegantly phrased, response, and they got in under my armour.  A neighbour then kindly lent me a CD of them.  Hm.  Nothing wrong with the voices, but the orchestrations and arrangements are only OK if you like that sort of thing (Mantovani, candy-floss and aural kitsch.)

The point is, of course, like the dog that could stand on its hind legs, not that the clergy do it well, but that they do it all.  These three Fathers could take off the dog-collars and get a job stacking shelves in Tesco's and they would still be worth listening to, but they are exceptional (though being Irish must help.)

We, on the choirstalls side of things, just do not associate fine singing with the clergy - and that isn't meant to sound rude or clique-y, it is just a statement of fact.  The tremulous clerics doing their best to intone the versicles are a fact of life, from parish church to evensong on the wireless, and every choirmaster and choirperson feels his or her heart sink when Gibbons in G is going to be intoned by Father Audubon in A-flat, E, and C# minor, often at the same time, and they are going to have to try and pick up the pieces.  And it must be worse for women clergy, because all the versicles are in the wretched bass clef (except in our Waterside parishes, of course - where willing choirpersons have reset them in both clefs - the next post is a downloadable, printable, copyright-free set (I hope!) of the usual Evensong versicles and responses, but with the versicles in the treble clef.)

But there is another side to it.  I gather, from the dark whispers that you pick up on if you accidentally bend down and put your ear to the keyhole as you pass the clergy vestry, that the two most terrifying prospects for the newly ordained curate are sermons and singing. I cannot imagine what that first sermon must feel like for him or her.  I really feel for you (as they say.) You thought you were to preach peace and love, and convey God's word as only you can do, but down there nice Mrs Featherington-Fotheringhay-Hawhaw and old Albert the sexton are just waiting to turn into pit bull terriers the moment you reach the top step of the pulpit, and the rest of the congregation have shed their Sunday suits and become leopards, alligators, and marauding lions seeking whom they might devour.  And they've got their eye on you.  And they're hungry. They know they can't heckle you when you're in the pulpit, but just wait till they get you at the social next Wednesday. "Oh vicar - have you got a moment?"

And even if you survive the sermon you've still got some singing bits to do, and now even the choir are sniggering at you behind their hands.

No, of course it isn't like that (is it?)  Congregations want you to do well, and choirs want you to do well, and on the singing front the RSCM wants you to do well, which is why it has joined forces with Bangor University to offer courses in sacred music, some of which are aimed specifically at clergy.  More information here (though detailed syllabuses and prospectuses are still awaited.)

The courses are mostly distance learning, with only the occasional need to set your Satnav to find Bangor.  And without a doubt you will have the protective arms of the RSCM around you - no chance of finding Mrs Featherington-Fotheringhay-Hawhaw and old Albert on the same course.

You hope.